


(because you want to die for love, you always have)

by Wagandea



Category: Kuroshitsuji | Black Butler
Genre: Blood, Caning, Canon - Manga, Character Study, Choking, Consensual But Not Safe Or Sane, Dark, Disturbing Themes, Dom Ciel Phantomhive, Dom/sub, Knifeplay, M/M, Master/Servant, Riding, Stabbing, Sub Sebastian Michaelis, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-31
Updated: 2019-05-31
Packaged: 2020-03-17 15:09:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,601
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18967744
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wagandea/pseuds/Wagandea
Summary: The knife, as it were, is Sebastian’s favorite toy, and a pleasure Ciel does not grant him often. This is a rare gift. It glitters in his hands, silver between the fingers,what would you like?Sebastian would like Ciel to hurt him, and sometimes, Ciel thinks he would like that too.





	(because you want to die for love, you always have)

**Author's Note:**

> While this is not exactly a companion piece to [bloodletting](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18715432), and was written to stand alone, the same themes are mirrored here and I imagine this could be something of a loose sequel, so if you're so inclined you can think of them as a set!
> 
> As with all of my works (unless specified), this is written to loosely fit in with what's been published so far of the manga, so Ciel should still be about 13 here, though you're welcome to imagine him older if you wish.

                    **one.**

“What would you like?” Perfectly reluctant and disdainful; the tone and temperament of a spoiled brat unaccustomed to taking another’s considerations into account. It does not occur to Ciel, until they are rather past the middle of the thing, that their roles ought to have been reversed. He is a strict master and an adept learner; can take any instrument of the trade into his hands and demonstrate it readily. The instruments of a torturer, that is; cane, crop or knife, they all glitter in his hands. _What would you like, Sebastian, just tell me, before I have to tell you_. There’s always a certain amount of impatience to him, a hot urgency. On the floor, stripped down to his trousers, Sebastian’s presence is cool and slow.

Ciel has never had time enough for this.

“Whatever my master sees fit to give me.” The knife, then, that hard look in his red eyes means he wants--

Ciel reaches for the rattan cane tonight. Sebastian is always proud, and particularly when he oughtn’t be. Once, twice, thrice, _tell me what you want_. The first strike heals before the fourth can be made, and Sebastian makes a… a _sound_ , some dreadfully inhuman whimper, his nose nearly pressed to the floor with how efficiently he’s folded himself in half on the Turkish rug in front of Ciel’s bed. Fifth, sixth. Had Ciel ordered him to take a different position, the swell of his arousal might be visible through the fine wool of Sebastian’s trousers. Seventh, eighth, and he knows the demon is lost to him.

Ciel does not know what sort of state it is Sebastian enters on these nights, what other world his mind inhibits; if he is thinking of Heaven, or Hell. What Ciel does know is this: For those few spare moments with Sebastian keeling on his bedroom floor, Ciel feels alone for the first time since the cage and the altar.

The cane falls from his hands, and it makes no sound when it hits the rug.

“Sebastian,” he calls, “ _Sebastian,_ ” and this time his impatience is laced with white-hot panic, boiling just under the surface of his mask. “Come back to me, Sebastian, I need--”

(Ciel does not love him. It occurs to him at the beginning of the thing, when he is first tasked with the not inconsiderable chore of disciplining a demon. He performs well until he doesn’t, until the moment the whole sordid affair is finished; and flees the bedroom in a panic, leaving Sebastian breathing hard and vulnerable on the soiled sheets with bruises all down his dove-white skin.

Ciel does not love him, and he has no idea how to _care_ for him. _Tell me what you want_ , but Ciel can’t give him that, can’t give him that _one_ thing. Perhaps their roles ought to have been reversed, but then, Ciel can’t give him that either.)

“Yes, my young master.” Distant and disoriented, sounds as though he has been woken very suddenly from a dream. His butler groans, pants like some wounded captured animal, and his quiet disappointment is palpable. This is a failure. He lifts his head from the rug, and his back is stark white and unblemished, as though Ciel had never struck him at all. “I’m right here. I’m right here.”

 

                    **two.**

He has not asked what Sebastian wants, tonight. Asking is superfluous, and the entire routine is coldly performative. _Tell me what you want_ , Ciel says, and discards each answer with the clinical efficiency of a shrewd businessman. It’s a waste. They’ve never had that kind of time.

Sebastian likes everything Ciel gives him, anyway, or if he _doesn’t_ then he puts on a good show of pretending. The intent matters little, as long as the result is the same. He has a pretty pet indeed, tamed and hand-fed, starving for any scrap of affection he is afforded. (Ciel does not know how to _care_ for him. _Does it make you hungry, Sebastian_ ? Ciel asks, somewhere else, in a different dark bedroom, a long time ago. _I’m sorry. I seem to have lost my appetite,_ quoth his butler. Ciel has not fed Sebastian _well_.)

He has put his hands around Sebastian’s throat, tonight. Sebastian wanting, beneath him, is a particular pleasure of Ciel’s. Sebastian is fully clothed, but his cock is out, and Ciel won’t touch him but he won’t let Sebastian touch himself either. This is an exercise in restraint, not cruelty, but Ciel has never been anything if not cruel.

The soft leather of Ciel’s gloves creaks when he tightens his grip. This is, he notes with a detached fascination, far more force than would be necessary to kill any human. Rather than hear the resulting low keening sound that emanates from the demon, Ciel can feel it vibrate against his palms, and presses harder accordingly. Sebastian’s cock weeps against his stomach, leaves a dark damp spot on his waistcoat. Ciel is hard, too, but that is--not the point of this exercise. Ciel is hard, and he _wants_.

“Mercy,” Sebastian manages very quietly, breathless, the last bit of air afforded to him with Ciel’s hands around his pretty throat. It takes him perhaps too long after he’s abruptly pulled his hands away from Sebastian’s throat (like he’s been burned, like--), that he realizes he himself is crying. His rings have left red imprints on Sebastian’s skin, they look sickly in the dark.

Ciel doesn’t want to look at him. There is shame, of course, and revulsion. Beneath him, always beneath him, Sebastian is perfectly docile, a well-trained beast. If Ciel were looking at him, he would notice this: Breathing stuttered, but out of carefully restrained want rather than the aftereffects of Ciel’s hands around his throat. Sebastian has been denied, and tonight is not the first nor last time they will repeat this scene. A strain in his expression, and barely veiled concern.

Sebastian has said it not because he is in distress, but because Ciel is.

This, too, is a failure.

(If Ciel only does not _look_ at him, then there is nothing for him to acknowledge. He will cover Sebastian’s face, next time, or else have him from behind. Were Sebastian not in love with him, he thinks, were Sebastian not in love with him it would be _easier_ , and then remembers that is precisely what he is refusing to acknowledge.)

 

                    **three.**

The knife is a perfect replica, sharp-edged and straight-handled. The knife, as it were, is Sebastian’s favourite toy, and a pleasure Ciel does not grant him often. This is a rare gift. It glitters in his hands, silver between the fingers, _what would you like?_

Sebastian would like Ciel to hurt him, and sometimes, Ciel thinks he would like that too.

It’s remarkable, really. How much the knife is just a knife. _Oh my brother, my brother_. Ciel is not here anymore. Judas takes his kiss, and his thirty pieces of silver, and hangs himself. Betrayal is the ultimate sin in the eyes of God; Dante’s Inferno sees Judas’s final resting place in one of Satan’s gaping mouths, fed to the Beast for his betrayal.

Ciel is not so arrogant as to believe their relationship has reached biblical heights.

There is no altar. The knife is just a knife. Sebastian is laid out on his cold bedsheets, stripped to his shirtsleeves, and Ciel rides his cock, bounces up and down with no rhythm in particular. He thinks he wants to let Sebastian come, tonight.

There are little white buttons all over the bed, pearlescent, like scraps of the moon that have dripped in through the window. Ciel has sliced all the buttons off Sebastian’s shirt before letting the blade taste skin. These cuts last longer than the welts from a cane, the bruises from his hands. Ciel traces red shapes into his chest, a circle, a star. The marks of their contract, cut into his skin and disappointingly temporary. Perhaps it will leave a scar, for a day or two.

His white shirt is red, the cold bedsheets are red. The knife ensures an additional punishment of Sebastian being necessitated to clean up after. “You’re bleeding,” Ciel informs him, because Sebastian has said nothing at all. His voice doesn’t shake. He’s getting close, or Sebastian is. “Sebastian.” Louder, insistent. The cuts heal up too quickly, and Ciel slices viciously back over old wounds. (The truth: Heaven and Hell exist both within the confines of Ciel’s bedroom. There is nowhere else for Sebastian to go.)

To bring Sebastian under might be a particular pleasure of Ciel’s, would he not feel so helpless by having done so. “ _S_ _ebastian_.” But Sebastian won’t come back to him, and Ciel _wants_ \--

The knife slots so perfectly between Sebastian’s middle ribs, so prettily. The hilt of it glitters in Ciel’s hands before he knows what he’s done. It sheathes itself there like it’s always belonged and Sebastian does not move under him at all, could pass for dead if he weren’t so hot to the touch. Ciel curses and calls for him; fucks himself on Sebastian’s cock erratically and twists the knife.

Sebastian comes on an abrupt choked sound; punctured lung, silver between the ribs, a horrid guttural sound that oughtn’t sound so human. “ _My master, my young master._ ” Starved and half mad, his poor pet. _Tell me what you want_ , and Ciel will give him anything he asks, _except that one thing_.

“I love you,” the boy who is not Ciel Phantomhive tells him, and what cuts the most is that he wishes he means it.

**Author's Note:**

> [tumblr](https://wagandea.tumblr.com/) | [twitter](https://twitter.com/celestewritings)


End file.
